Chapter 9 – “We Hug Now” - Sydney Rose
VICE
“WE HUG NOW” - SYDNEY ROSE
The stairs creak beneath my feet as I tiptoe to the lower level of the house. A lot of homes in this neighborhood are older, but many have been updated to match the modern, beachfront dream buyers seek along the California coastline.
August’s resembles something homier—charming and warm.
Almost academic in its use of dark wood along the floors and molding, the soft cream and beige walls, and the way it’s draped in earth-toned furnishings.
The stairs end just in front of the door, with the kitchen to my right and the living room to my left.
I turn that way, stepping onto the massive geometric-patterned rug that covers the space.
A crimson couch sits beneath the front bay windows.
A cream recliner is next to it, both facing the TV mounted to the wall above the dark-stone mantel.
Beside the chair is an open doorway, and I’m rendered speechless as I step through it.
The floor sinks down into a den, showcasing the age of the home.
The den is softly carpeted, with two reading chairs in the center of the room.
Bookshelves line the walls from top-to-bottom, each one crammed full.
A home library.
It smells like paper—comforting and familiar.
I walk the perimeter of the room, slowly running the tips of my fingers over the spines, cataloging the way August has everything organized.
First, by genre. Then, by author name. His selection of mysteries is by far the largest, which isn’t surprising.
I know they’re his favorites. Followed by fantasy, thriller, and paranormal.
His non-fiction section is the smallest, of course.
He even has a few shelves of romance—including every book I’ve written.
I don’t let my eyes wander on those too long.
It’s like a stab through the chest to remember how passionate and motivated I used to be.
How lovely it felt to live inside the worlds I’d developed all on my own.
The liberation of creating something that you know could not exist without you.
The name Violet Rose, foiled on the spine of one of my black hardback editions, winks in the morning light like it’s taunting me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever publish a book again, and when my entire identity was built off my ability to do exactly that, it’s a harsh reminder that I have no goddamn clue who I am anymore.
“I can make space here if you need a place for the books you have at Everett’s.”
I jump, knocking into one of the shelves, startled by the sound of August’s gruff voice.
I turn, finding him standing against a door I hadn’t noticed.
He’s wearing the same thing he was last night—sleep-mussed curls, glasses, a black T-shirt, and gray sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination.
Not that I needed the stark reminder of its size staring me in the face, I’m well acquainted with the man’s magnificent fucking cock already.
He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring.
My eyes flitter up his body, landing on his face. He pops a brow behind his black frames.
“I… Thanks. Most of my books are actually in storage with my parents. I only keep a few boxes with me, and I’ll probably store those in my room, if that’s all right.”
“Actually, those books are right here.”
My mouth drops, and I glance around the room. August and I have always loved a lot of the same titles, so while I recognized many of them, I assumed they were his own copies. “What do you mean?”
“Your parents got rid of their storage unit a while ago, and Monica felt bad about giving away all your books but didn’t have space to keep them, so I offered to take them off her hands.”
“Oh…” I don’t know how else to respond. I would’ve been disappointed if my mother had given away all the books I’ve read and collected over my life, but I wouldn’t have been angry with her.
I left home on a whim. I’ve never had a place to store them.
I’ve never had anywhere to truly call my own.
I couldn’t expect her, or August, to find space for them. “Thank you.”
He only shrugs, hands in his sweatpants pocket, like he couldn’t care less.
“Everett called me last night, looking for you. Repeatedly.” I wince, having nearly forgotten the disaster that was this weekend—and yesterday’s conversation with my brothers.
“He insisted on coming to get you. I told him to give you space, but you should text him or something. Don’t let shit fester. ”
His tone is devastating—words laced with some kind of pain I don’t quite understand. I don’t want to look at August, so I turn, studying the spines of the books on his shelves. I run my hands across them again, finding comfort in their texture.
I don’t want to see my brother yet. I need a plan first. August offered me a room, and my initial reaction was absolutely the fuck not.
I can’t stomach that—living with the ghost of my grandest sins.
But continuing the dance of fallacy with my brothers has officially crashed and burned.
Hiding in Everett’s home will no longer be tolerated, and the crushing weight of my family’s disappointment is a suffocation I can no longer endure.
Fully aware that I’m wearing a pair of August’s oversized joggers, a sweatshirt that damn-near swallows me whole, and last night’s rat’s nest of matted hair I failed to brush through, I exit the den and head toward the front door.
August follows me, and I realize the door he’d been standing in front of must lead to his bedroom.
At least we’d be sleeping on two separate floors.
I slip my shoes on, murmuring, “I’m just going to take a quick walk and clear my head.
If Everett shows up while I’m gone, let him know I’ll be back soon. ”
“Will you?”
“Yes?” I grit, lifting my head to glare at him.
“You don’t have the best track record when it comes to walking out that door.”
My eyes close, guilt washing through me. Shaking off thoughts of that night, I finish tying my shoes, toss open the front door, and head out into the bright morning without a word.
The air feels fresher now that the rain has passed, like it cleared the radicals clinging to the oxygen we’d been breathing, leaving only purity behind.
I did intend to walk, knowing I’m not wearing the most appropriate clothing for a jog, but as my feet hit the pavement, I crave that familiar burn and rhythm of running.
I used to run often, before the mere effort of getting out of bed was too tiresome to attempt most days. Running felt like a good form of punishment for my never-ending sins. It fucking hurts. It makes me ache and sweat, makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
I deserve to feel like I can’t breathe.
I used to run often after Zach died. It helped convince my family I was okay, because technically running is good for me. For my body. Others could be convinced that the fresh air is beneficial for my head and my soul, though both of those things are diseased without hope of cure.
But at some point, I no longer felt like running. In New York, there was no way for anyone to know whether I was keeping up with it, and it was then I realized what a fraud I was. I didn’t care if I was hurting and had no hope of ever feeling better.
After the confrontation with Everett last night, I felt the need to bolt.
My masks were ripped off my face, and all of my ugly, unhealed wounds were exposed for all to see.
When I hit the pavement, I had no idea where I was going—until I ended up in front of the house I’ve only been inside once, but still know all too well.
It was a moment of weakness to ask August to stay the night, the same kind of comfort I’ve sought out all my life when I was hurting. Like a lighthouse upon the rocky cliffs of my soul’s sea, he’d been a beacon—but I know better than to keep believing he still operates for my benefit.
He let me stay out of pity. I bet if it hadn’t been raining, he wouldn’t have even let me come inside. That understanding made me bolt again this morning.
Running with no destination in mind, I head west from August’s, toward the ocean.
The smell of salt and the sound of seagulls amplify the closer I get, until I’m jogging up Oceanside Avenue.
I stop at the familiar white house with blue shutters and honeysuckle bushes lining the front windows, placing my hands above my head as I breathe through the seizing pain in my chest.
I’m so fucking out of shape.
I shuffle up the walk that leads to the covered front porch, climbing the steps and rapping my knuckles on the door.
I’ve had far too many tense confrontations via front door in the last twenty-four hours—I don’t imagine I’ll be getting out of bed for several days after this.
But, at the very least, I need to have options before I meet Everett.
I need to have a plan ready, even if I fail at following through with it.
It only takes a moment before Darby opens the door.
There’s a soft, tired smile on her face, and I realize it’s far too early on a Sunday morning to be bothering them like this.
That smile on her lips morphs into an “O” as her eyes go wide, and her body rears back at the sight of me.
Her tumbling, straight golden hair sways with the movement, like she’s a fucking animated Disney character.
One hand falls to the ever-growing bump beneath her tank top, the other hand clasping her throat. “Elena,” she gasps. Huffing a laugh, she continues, “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you. Hi!” She eagerly steps aside, motioning for me to enter.
“Sorry, I know it’s early,” I murmur, shutting the door behind me and following Darby to the kitchen.
“Oh my gosh, no worries at all. I’m so happy you stopped by.” She stops at the island in the center of the kitchen. “Do you want coffee or anything?”